


Roots & Reclamation

by DaharMaster



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bajor, Bajoran Kibbutz Fic, Gen, Post-Occupation Bajor, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-15 21:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21025193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaharMaster/pseuds/DaharMaster
Summary: It's been three years since the end of the Occupation of Bajor, but the world and its people are still struggling to heal. To aid in that, the newly appointed First Minister Shakaar has created the Bajoran Disappropriation and Resettlement Effort, taking former Cardassian facilities and lands and turning them into homes and workplaces for displaced Bajorans.Formerly the Aranakh Detention Center in Kendra Province, the Little Yolja Kava Plantation is one such place. This is the story of it and the six Bajorans trying to make a new life there.





	Roots & Reclamation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thievesguilding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievesguilding/gifts).

From the front porch of the main house, up on the hill, Kyrh Lorzal could see just about the whole plantation. With the exception of the sole hill the house was built on it was an obviously artificially flat rectangle of cleared land, dug into the rolling wooded hills of Kendra Province. It was only fourteen hecapates, but by the Prophets, it was, at least partially,  _ his  _ fourteen hecapates.

Though obscured by trees, Lorzal could hear the sound of the Little Yolja River to the northwest of the plantation. It was beautiful, serene even, but something still felt wrong. Could he really build a new life where a Cardassian detention center had once stood? How many had died, or worse, where the plantation now sat?

Then, as she always did, as if she knew he was entering a dark place in his mind, his little light appeared.

“Papa,” asked Malva, his beautiful and beaming six year old daughter, her knit sweater still slightly too big for her and her skirt and leggings already dirty though the day was young, “When are the other farmers going to be here?”

“Today, for certain,” he replied, gently tousling her wavy blonde hair, “Maybe soon!” Malva gasped in excitement, causing Lorzal to grin widely.

“How soon?” she demanded excitedly, rocking back and forth on her tiptoes and flapping the overly long sleeves of her sweater.

No sooner had she said it than the sound of a transport along the dirt and gravel road which passed by the plantation, connecting the settlements of Jo’Kala to the north and Hathon to the southeast, could be heard.

Lorzal shaded his eyes with a hand and looked out towards the entrance to the plantation. The small transport halted just within the open gates and two figures climbed out, one slightly hunched over and walking with a limp, the other well built but moving nervously as they unloaded what few possessions they had brought.

“Hey Malva,” Lorzal exclaimed, “There’s some now! Want to say hello?”

Malva didn’t hear him as she was already halfway down the hill. Lorzal let out a barking laugh and took off in pursuit.

-

“You’re doing just fine, Krale,” Vedek Ornaith Dian told the younger man who was nearly too busy looking around anxiously to unload their small load of luggage.

“At least… at least it doesn’t  _ look  _ like Aranakh,” Henjik Krale replied uneasily, hefting a large piece of luggage out of the back of the transport.

Vedek Ornaith studied him carefully. Nearly a year ago, First Minister Shakaar had begun the Bajoran Disappropriation and Resettlement Effort, a movement with the purpose of repurposing old Cardassian facilities into new homes and workplaces for dispossessed Bajorans.

The Bajoran Reclamation Corps had done a brilliant job turning this site into a small self-sufficient fully sustainable kava plantation, but before it had been the site of the Aranakh Detention Center, one of the largest in Kendra Province.

Though a simple farmer, Krale had in fact been held there for nearly a year as a hostage of sorts, used as leverage against his family, and Ornaith knew the scars ran deep.

But all this was why, after meeting the young man through the Disappropriation and Resettlement Effort, he’d insisted they volunteer for this assignment. Those scars, he knew, needed to be healed, and in his mind this was the best way to do it.

Still, he prayed to the Prophets he was right.

Krale set down a large crate that clashed and jangled with pots and pans, then looked up only to find himself eye to eye with a young girl, her nose creases still soft and shallow, and her bright blonde hair tangled slightly with her ear chain.

She grinned at him, dimples forming alongside her rosy cheeks.

“Hi!” she chirped, “I’m Malva! Are you the other farmers?” Krale blinked in astonishment, still unsure precisely where she’d come from to begin with. He looked around for a second, hesitantly.

_ No light. There was never any light. Kept indoors even in the day, caged like animals, it was always so dark. Bootsteps, Cardassian boots. You learned to tell the difference. Prophets, I hope it’s not me. But if it was, the beatings, the questions. I don’t know anything! Why am I here? _

Krale’s eyes snapped back to the girl who was beaming up at him. In that moment, as long as he stayed focused on her, the memories of Aranakh did not intrude upon his mind. He felt his breathing, his heart rate, everything slow.

“We are,” he said in as friendly a tone as he could muster, “Well some, at least. I’m Krale, nice to meet you Malva.”

Suddenly another figure, a man, huffing and puffing, arrived at a jog and let out a tired breath.

Ornaith limped over to the man and clasped him on the shoulders, a typical Kendra greeting, though the vedek’s accent gave him away as an outsider.

“You must be our host!” Ornaith exclaimed, “Kyrh Lorzal, if I’m not mistaken? A pleasure. I’m Vedek Ornaith, though not much of a vedek anymore, eh? That’s my young friend Krale.”

Lorzal, grateful the vedek was a tad long winded so he could catch his breath, also clapped the man on the shoulders and smiled.

“I see you’ve already met my daughter, Malva,” Lorzal grinned, “But please, just call me Lorzal.”

Ornaith nodded. He momentarily considered asking where the girl’s mother was, but anyone who survived the Occupation had learned questions like that were better left unasked and unanswered.

With Lorzal’s help, the transport was soon unloaded and on its way, kicking up dust and gravel as it went.

“C’mon,” Lorzal said, hefting some of their baggage, “I’ll show you to the dormitory. Once everyone’s here and settled I’ll give you a tour of the plantation.”

-

They were a few hours out from Hathon now and the public transport seemed to be making slow progress along the unpaved and uneven road surface. It was cramped and stuffy in the back, with most of the other passengers practically buried in their own luggage.

Geina Arys, however, stuck out a bit. Though slightly overdressed for the rather temperate climate of Kendra Province, she carried only one small pouch with her. Nervously, she continually fidgeted with her earring, feeling out of place.

_ These were  _ real  _ Bajorans. Born, bred, raised on Bajor. _

It felt to her like they somehow knew what she was, that they could all sense that the grubby nineteen year old girl with the tattered clothes was just an impostor. Unlike them, this was her first time on Bajor.

But she tried not to think about it, instead focusing on the others. At least everyone looked equally uncomfortable as the transport jostled and bounced. Well, nearly everyone.

The woman across from her, whose only luggage was a medium-sized case and a duffel bag, had somehow managed to remain asleep since they’d left Hathon. Something about the woman, more than just her apparently supernatural ability to sleep in such conditions, intrigued Arys.

Her lips were scarred and there was just the slightest hint of a burn mark creeping up from her left shoulder, across her chest, and onto her neck. Her earring too was made of some strange metal and looked crude and burnt.

_ Now there’s someone with a story to tell _ , thought Arys.

Without warning the transport lurched to a halt and a voice came over the loudspeaker, nearly garbled beyond all recognition.

“Little Yolja Kava Plantation, should be two to disembark,” the driver grunted. Arys’ heart began to flutter. This was it. This was the beginning of the rest of her life. Her real life, not the one full of suffering and loss in the refugee camps, but her  _ real  _ one, was about to begin.

She stood up, clutching her worn pouch tightly, and proceeded to immediately hit her head on the transport’s ceiling. The whole passenger section looked at her in surprise.

“Whoops,” she giggled, nervously, specks of light dotting her vision.

“You coming or not, girl?” a gruff voice asked from behind her. She whirled and saw the woman with the case and duffel bag, already halfway out of the back exit, looking at her expectantly.

“Oh! You’re…” Arys managed, stumbling towards the woman.

“Yep, another transplant like yourself,” she replied, “Introductions can wait, c’mon.”

Anxiety and excitement in equal measure caused things to blur together then and Arys found herself standing outside the gates of the plantation, glad for the shawl and hood she wore as it shielded most of her face from the glaring Bajoran sun as the transport moved off.

The other woman stood beside her and nodded in her direction.

“Zor Dalma,” she said, by way of introduction.

“Oh, Geina Arys,” Arys replied with an awkward smile and a slight wave of her hand. Dalma’s mouth quirked slightly in what may have been a grin and gestured towards where a group of others had gathered inside the main compound.

“Shall we?” she asked. Arys nodded excitedly, but let Dalma go first.


End file.
